Never, Never (11 page)

T
HAT NIGHT
, J
AMES SAT IN HIS CAPTAIN
'
S QUARTERS
, idly flipping a doubloon over and over across his fingers. He was staring quietly into the mirror, not really seeing himself, just staring, so as to avoid the raucous merriment of his crew outside. He was willing himself not to feel the guilt boiling beneath his façade of poise.

A soft knock interrupted his musings.

“Come in.”

“Captain, sir, Captain, sir,” Smee interrupted, “I thought you might want to have a look at this.”

When he saw what it was, James's mouth fell open. “Smee, where did you get this?”

“In the plunder, sir. There's quite a pile of it if you'd like to see.”

James waved him into quiet and grabbed the thing from Smee's hand. It was a pan flute. And not an ordinary pan flute; James recognized it instantly as Pan's flute. He turned it several times, examining it, wanting to be sure. Caressing its distinctly grained wood and focusing on every little scar it had gotten over the years, he was quite certain. It was an item of great value to Peter, one of the few things the boy truly treasured. He knew that Peter was sharp enough to guess as to its whereabouts when the mermaids undoubtedly tattled to him of James's pillaging.

James stared at the flute thoughtfully and dismissed Smee with a single flick of his hand. He followed the man out minutes later and leaned against the dark outer wall of his cabin, staring at the flute.

“Captain,” said the fellow with the comically large nose who'd steered earlier. His voice wobbled and cracked when he spoke.

James fought the urge to snicker. “You did well today,” he said instead, and it was true. “What's your name, pirate?”

“Flintwise, sir.” He kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

James clapped his hand down on the man's shoulder and Flintwise looked up, a little smile on his lips when James said, “Yes, you did well, Flintwise.”

Flintwise nodded and headed back to the pile of treasure,
clop-clop-clopping
as his leg banged against the wood of the ship.

James's attention turned quickly back to the flute, since the rest of his men were quite distracted. The noise of celebration and drunkenness provided an odd background to his considerations. He should take the flute back. He knew that this was the sensible thing. Or he could keep it for himself and provoke Peter to come and get it. Perhaps, if he was well enough prepared, he could defeat the boy. And if he could do that, he could guarantee his passage back home. The easier choice was clear. But the nastier, more violent one was decidedly more enticing. He was, after all, a pirate.

T
HE
S
PANISH
M
AIN
WAITED QUIETLY IN PORT AS SEVERAL
Neverdays passed. James spent them pacing on the ship's deck and brooding in his quarters and occasionally staring at the flute that he hoped would be his ticket home.

One night, as he was staring out over the darkening sea, he noticed a chill shift in the air. It was not a usual sort of chill or a usual sort of darkening. It was the kind that came only from Peter Pan. When the boy was in a foul or sinister mood, the island often mirrored him, something James had always found overwhelmingly annoying. Tonight, however, James was grateful for the sorcery. He twisted his lips into a smile and spun around to face his crew, the eerie darkness creating a foreboding backdrop for the captain.

“Men!” he shouted over the rumble of the distant thunder. The crewmembers all stopped what they were doing, mid-drink, mid-clean, mid-breath.

“Aye, Captain,” shouted Starkey.

“Make preparations. Tonight, the Pan is coming aboard.”

The pirates did not hop to action, for none of them had any inkling as to what those preparations would be. James rolled his eyes, secretly pleased that the crew needed him so greatly. He motioned for Starkey to come near him.

“Do we have any oil aboard the ship?”

Starkey raised a bushy eyebrow. “Aye.”

“How much of it?” James demanded.

Starkey frowned and hesitated before saying, “A large amount, I believe. Meant for lighting lamps, Captain.”

James nodded. “Ask the men to bring it out.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Starkey bowed his head and left, bringing several crewmembers with him below deck. Then, James crooked a finger at Bill Jukes, who descended promptly from his crow's nest, clambering down unevenly. He practically fell from rung to rung, and James wondered how one didn't snap beneath him. Perhaps a smaller fellow ought to hold such a position.

“Captain?”

James put his knuckle to his mouth and rested it there, pondering. “I need you and the rest of yours to rig something for me.”

Several pirates filled the space behind Jukes, cocking their ears.

“What's that?” Jukes said.

“A net.”

Jukes frowned.

“Pan will try to scale the ship. He'll do it there.” James strode to the side of the ship and leaned over it, stretching his arm past the gold border. He pointed to one particular spot, where the wood was just slightly discolored and worn, varnish peeling.

He remembered climbing in that exact spot, every time he couldn't convince Peter to let him stay behind. Children, after all, were creatures of habit. And Pan was nothing more than a “children.”

James sneered. “We're going to douse it in oil. Even Peter won't be able to grab hold. He'll fall. And then he'll
fly. When he does that, I want him to fly straight into our trap. Can you do that, Jukes?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Do it, then.”

Jukes nodded and walked heavily away, trailed by four men in brown rags who only looked so skinny because they were standing next to that kraken of a man.

James surveyed his ship, proudly noting the hurried actions of each member of his crew.

After he was satisfied that every man was working, he retreated to his quarters, the warmth of his cabin prickling his skin. James pulled the pan flute from a drawer and set it atop his desk's shiny surface. Then, he retrieved a tarnished pair of scissors and sat before the mirror. He grabbed a lock of his too-long, coal-black hair and slowly snipped it away, strand by strand, until it hung in waves to just below his jaw. His face was already shaven and clean—captainly. And he noticed, for the first time, curls of chest hair peeking out above his shirt, which was unlaced and hanging low. He was getting older and older all the time. Nineteen or twenty now, he suspected.

James paused thoughtfully and wondered if his parents would even recognize him if—
when
—he got home. Then he shrugged his red coat over his shoulders, fastened each button, and set his hat atop his head. Even if he was preparing to fight a war, it was not uncalled for to preserve a bit of etiquette and good form.

He creaked open the door to the outside, cold and warmth mingling strangely in the air, and noted, with satisfaction, the ever more tumultuous sky, the peals of thunder cracking like whips through the air, and the lightning illuminating the angry clouds. The stars racing and nearly crashing into one another. Peter was getting furious.

James walked across the deck, happy with the bright sheen of oil on the ship's side, and the net, which, in any other weather, would have been visible, if not obvious. But, in the dark, Pan might miss it. James stood at the ship's helm and smiled in a way he hadn't smiled since he'd come there. It was a smile of sinister darkness, curdled with hope. His hair blew behind him as he faced the storm, features lighting up with the sky. It was enough to give noticeable chills even to the pirates on his crew.

Then, there was a silence, one that fell and hung for a moment between the thunderclaps. In that thick quiet, James heard it—a snap of a twig. Then another. The Lost Boys were at the ship now, and Peter was with them.

James looked out into the trees. They were slate-grey, leaves quivering.

He held a finger to his lips and the pirate crew receded into the shadows. It would seem to Pan and his boys that the ship was empty. At least, that was what James hoped. There was a tap on the boat's side, and several more followed.

Tap, tap, tap
, and a sliding.

Tap, tap, tap, slide.

James smiled secretly. Starkey and Jukes each moved quietly to their posts on either side of the net.

James pulled out Pan's flute, leaning against his cabin, and waited for another silent moment to come. When one did, James brought the flute to his lips and blew out. Long, slow breaths that the flute amplified with its low, mournful whistling. Flintwise, who stood beside him, shuddered.

Then, the thunder crashed, much louder than before, and Peter shot up over the deck, knife already drawn. It sliced easily through the net and Peter sprang through it, walking on air on the other side. James was stricken, knowing in the depths of him that if it came down to
hand-to-hand combat, Peter would best him every time. The color drained from his face when Peter stopped above him, put his fists on his hips, knuckles buried in the familiar makeshift outfit—drapings of hide and moss— and looked down and smiled.

“Well, pirate, it seems you have something of mine.” He smiled with his teeth.

“Yes, fairy, it certainly does.”

Peter frowned. “Do not call me ‘fairy,' for you know my name is Peter Pan.”

“Then do not call me ‘pirate,' for you know my name as well.”

“Why would I ever learn your name, pirate?” he said, eyes bright, spinning briefly in the air.

James's face darkened. “You know me, boy.”

Peter crossed his legs and set his face on his hand for a minute, lines in his forehead deeply creased. “No, pirate. I don't believe I do.”

James's nostrils flared, a dark hate blooming in his chest. “Lies.”

“Never.”

James laughed, but it was completely devoid of humor. “You lied to me once, Peter Pan. Of course you would do it again.”

“I did no such thing,” Peter said, thin eyebrows arched. “I've never even met you.”

“James Hook. You know me.”

Peter looked genuinely confused. James furrowed his brow, and a deep pain, one that tore at him harder, even, than when Peter had tried to kill him, spiraled in his gut. “Is it possible that you really don't remember?”

“Yes. Because we have never met. Why would I recall you if I've never seen you?”

James was overcome with rage and confusion. Was it truly possible that the boy somehow didn't know him?
After all that time together in the Neverwoods? It hadn't been so long since he'd left, had it? He had a compulsion, only for a moment, to race to the edge of the ship, to stare down at the Lost Boys waiting there and be sure that Bibble hadn't forgotten him. Or Bobble or Slightly.

But no, they hadn't. Surely they hadn't. Peter was nothing if not egocentric. In the past, if anything hadn't related directly to him, or he'd found it irritating or useless, he'd forgotten it, sometimes instantly. Peter had always been prone to forgetting unforgettable things. James had just never reckoned that he would be counted among them. Rage bubbled up inside him.

“Take me back home, Peter, or I swear to you, I will—”

“You'll what? Catch me in a net? Did you truly think you could catch Peter Pan in a net? Did you think I wouldn't see it in the storm?”

Starkey and Jukes grumbled and shifted uneasily, and James's mouth fell open, for that was indeed what he had thought.

Peter laughed a loud, taunting laugh and stretched out his arms, the little dagger he always had balancing on those dexterous fingers. James recoiled automatically, knife flashing in his mind, hurtling him back into an unwelcome memory of that very blade digging into his neck, those long, thin fingers crushing his arms, his windpipe.

“Foolish man!” called Peter, gripping the knife again, drawing James out of his reverie. “I saw it when the sky flashed. Even the lightning loves me!”

James shook his head for he knew what the Pan said was true, but he regained his composure quickly and shouted up at the boy, “Fine, then. Come and claim what's yours.”

Peter grinned devilishly and James outstretched his sword, thinking it bad form to spring it upon the boy.
Peter brandished his own dagger. But, when he shot downward, he did not come at James. Instead, he went after a pirate James did not yet know the name of.

The other pirate was as stunned as James, and he fumbled for his sword. Several men started toward him, blades outstretched. James saw the dread in the man's face and dropped the flute, running as quickly as he could to defend his crewman. There was a great fear in the depths of him, welling quickly up, devouring him. He could not have another innocent man's face in his head, dead at the hands of Peter Pan. It was this fear that drove the generally elegant man into fumbling, and he knew before Peter struck that he would not get there in time. Nor would Starkey or Jukes, who were both barreling toward him, both knowing as well as James that their guns would do nothing against Pan; he was too quick. But getting within sword-fighting distance was impossible.

Peter drove his dagger to the hilt into the pirate's chest. Blood spilled over the blade from the wound. And James was left, once again, with an image that would haunt his dreams forever.

James's face went through a myriad of changes in a moment. From terrified to stricken to denying, and finally resting on malicious. Malice, James could do.

“Peter, yet again you provoke me,” he said, voice barely audible over the fierce wind.

“What will you do about it, old man?”

James thought for a moment, seriously contemplating his answer. Then, he turned his face up to the boy and gave him the most honest reply he could. “Kill you, Peter. I will kill you.”

Peter laughed at this, a shaking, loud belly-laugh. “You can never kill me.”

“Can't I?”

“Of course not.” His mouthed quirked up and crossed his arms. “I'm Peter Pan. No one wishes to kill me.”

In this answer, James had to turn his face away, for he refused to let Peter see the raw emotion he had stirred up. “I do. You killed me first.”

Peter frowned, then shrugged, as though his statement was of no value whatsoever. “Nonsense. Why do men always speak such nonsense?”

James turned again to face him, face lit by the periodic flashes of lightning in the inky sky. “What I say now is not nonsense. I will kill you, or I will die trying. You can consider that a promise.”

Peter clapped his hands together. “What fun.”

“Come and fight me.”

He crossed his legs in the sky and leaned his cheek against his knuckles. “I'm bored of this adventure.”

“But you can't leave yet. Not without—”

James was silenced by Pan's shrill, merry whistling on his flute.

“How did you—”

“I nicked it. While you were staring at something or other. I can't remember.”

James's jaw clenched and he stared up at Peter, brow shadowing his features. “The pirate. I was staring at the dead pirate.” A gruff cry went up from his crewmen, and his own voice was shaking with his body, trembling with dark, dangerous rage. “The man lying in his own blood on my deck, Peter. The same blood on your knife. The one you just murdered minutes ago.”

Another angry shout from the men.

“Oh, yes. Some fellow or other. I always forget them after I kill them.” Peter dismissed the point with a wave of his hand. Then, he stood and bounced off nothing, rocketing into the sky, taking the storm with him.